Whispers of Fire and Snow: A Journey to Lassen National Park
Some journeys are not merely about reaching a destination — they are about the quiet transformations that unfold along the way. Our visit to Lassen Volcanic National Park was one such journey. It took us two attempts to get there. The first time, an unseasonal snowstorm blanketed the park, forcing it to close. Nature, in her own unhurried language, reminded us — gently yet unmistakably — that she doesn’t bend to human calendars. But the mountains waited. And so did we.
When we finally arrived in the heart of summer 2025, we were greeted by the lingering touch of snow — sparkling like scattered diamonds across alpine meadows. In Lassen, summer isn’t a date on the calendar. It is a slow, patient exhale. The frozen lakes begin to murmur again. One of the most poetic sights was a half-thawed lake, its mirrored surface trembling with the promise of life. Wildflowers dared to bloom — especially along the Ridge trail — painting the path with golden defiance. The forests, long silenced by winter’s hush, stirred like dreamers waking from a deep slumber.
We stayed in Shingletown, a quiet hamlet nestled twenty miles from the park’s northern entrance. With just over two thousand souls, it is a place untouched by curated luxury. There are no boutique cafés or fusion menus here — only something far rarer: stillness. At Pioneer Pizza, strangers exchanged nods, laughter echoed from a game of pool, and time slowed to a gentler rhythm. Within the park, the Kohm Yah-mah-nee Visitor Center provided basic food and souvenirs, but two humble outposts outside the park stood out: Franks and Highlands Resort, and Lassen Mineral Lodge in the tiny town of Mineral. It was at the Lodge — a family-run place with over a century of stories — that we enjoyed our most memorable meal.
Our home for the week was Big Foot Resort, where internet was intermittent at best — a blessing in disguise. We watched movies the old-fashioned way — on DVDs. I saw five during our stay: Hope Floats, Just Friends, Love Happens, The American and The Lincoln Lawyer. These films, imperfect in resolution yet rich in emotion, brought back memories of a time when choice was limited but decisions were intentional. In today’s world, flooded with infinite content, we often find ourselves lost in the scroll, consuming less while seeking more.
But Lassen’s true gift lies in its hikes — each one a dialogue with the Earth. We began with the gentle 1.5-mile loop around Manzanita Lake, where Mount Lassen loomed in the distance — majestic, brooding, and eternal. The Kings Creek Falls trail, with its cascading water, felt like a metaphor for time — always rushing, always moving. But the soul of the park revealed itself on the five-mile ascent to Lassen Peak. Flanked by frozen lakes — Helen and Emerald — we hiked across ice and silence, guided by poles, determination, and awe. Photos were taken, yes, but the real treasure was in the pauses, the shared silence, and the reminder that not all beauty needs narration.
It’s hard to believe that this peaceful peak once erupted violently on June 14, 1914. The eruption was captured in haunting photographs by Benjamin F. Loomis, and just two years later, Lassen was declared a national park. But this is no fossil of a violent past — it is geology in motion. Lassen is one of the rare places on Earth where all four types of volcanoes — shield, composite, cinder cone, and plug dome — exist together. Lassen Peak itself is one of the largest plug dome volcanoes in the world.
Every rock in the park holds memory. Every trail whispers ancient truths. We listened to the gurgle of mud pots, the hiss of steam vents, and the sharp breath of sulphur springs. And then, at night, the heavens unfolded. The Milky Way poured its light over the mountains like an ancient benediction. I was reminded once again that there is a kind of peace only the cosmos can offer — where time feels infinite, and life, momentarily, makes sense.
But Lassen has not been untouched by fire. In 2021, the Dixie Fire consumed much of its eastern half. And just last year, the Park Fire of 2024 ravaged its western edges, forcing closures once again. This balance of beauty and danger has long drawn storytellers — mystery writer Nevada Barr captured this duality in her novel Firestorm. I picked up a National Park Adventure Guide on this trip — a simple book with stamps and stickers to commemorate each visit. A childlike joy, perhaps, but also a sacred ritual of remembrance.
And yes, even in the peak of summer, we threw snowballs — because Lassen allows such contradictions. It is a place where fire meets ice, where silence dances with subterranean fury, and where solitude is not loneliness — but sanctuary.
Lassen may not be the most visited of America’s national parks. It may not make it to the top of most travel lists. But in a world that constantly chases the spectacular, it quietly offers something deeper: contemplation. It invites you to pause, to listen — not just to the Earth or the stars, but to the faint stirrings within your own heart.
And sometimes, that is exactly the journey we need.
